tless
sport. He trumpets his successes, but he never speaks of his
failures--he buries them so deeply that he forgets them himself. He
veils his plans, movements, and personal appearance in a fog of
mystery. None, not even his closest associates, know what he would be
at until a job is completely finished, and finished successfully. Thus
when he succeeds, his own small world is deeply impressed--even
nauseated--by the compelling spectacle of a Dawson triumphant; when he
fails, very few know or hear of the failure. He loves the jealousy of
his equals and inferiors even more than the admiration of his
superiors. Thoroughly to enjoy life he must be surrounded by both in
the amplest measure.

What I now have to tell is the story of a failure--a failure due to
his refusal ever to allow his right hand to know what his left hand
sought to do. He never told me himself one word concerning this story.
I obtained the details partly from Captain Rust, partly from Dawson's
Deputy, but chiefly from the lady who filled the star role. Dawson
himself foolishly introduced me to her nearly two years later; he did
not anticipate that we should become friendly, confidential, that we
should discuss him and his little ways over cups of tea, made the
sweeter by the clandestine nature of our frequent meetings. He had not
allowed for the fascinations of the lady--fascinations so alluring
that even I, a middle-aged Father of a Family and Justice of the
Peace, was instantly reduced by them to the softest moral pulp; and he
had not allowed for the Puckish glee with which I welcomed the tale,
rolled it round in my wicked fancy, and bent its ramifications into an
orderly narrative.

* * * * *

I very vividly remember my first meeting with the lady. She came one
day, a fortnight after I had returned from Cary's flat to my neglected
duties, heralded by a short note from Dawson. "I shall be greatly
obliged if you will give Madame Gilbert all assistance in your power.
She is one of my team." That was all, but my curiosity was piqued. I
had heard much of Dawson's team of feminine assistants--rudely called
by rivals his "harem"--and I was eager to meet one of them. I ordered
Madame Gilbert to be admitted to my presence. She came, I saw, she
conquered. When I assert that in two minutes she had plucked me from
my chair of dignity, flung me upon the Turkey carpet, and jumped upon
me with her daintily shod feet, I do not exag